Hell's Half Acre
by Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R
Summary: Welcome to Hell, this giant blue marble called Pandora may be the last you ever visit. Set in AU of Avatar, and follows a number of different individuals in their daily lives and deaths. This is a little slice of a larger Hell! Not a story for hippies. AU, OC's, Violence, torture (may contain a few sexual reference/innuendo). [On hiatus, not abandoned].
1. Chapter 1 - Welcome to Hell

**Hell's Half Acre - Chapter 1** **  
** **Pandora** **  
**

**Chapter 1 - "Welcome to Hell"**

Foreword: I am an amateur writer whose works and purely for the purposes of recreation and nothing more (certainly no monetary gain). I make use of elements, concepts, blue monkeys, and CGI space lizards from James Cameron's film, _Avatar_. This story begins in the somewhat early stages of the Pandoran campaign (10 years since start of operations on Pandora).

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it (I don't think I ever will, being that I know everything about it and don't feel any sense of wonder or adventure that you might).

 **Hell's Half Acre  
0700 hours local time  
**-

The small convoy of outdated vehicles rolled towards the fenced compound in the center of a clearing only made and maintained through the use of flamethrowers, chainsaws and salt.  
The jungle couldn't be tamed, only held at bay, or managed. Unless you take a rather extreme measure by clearing it, then salting it. You've probably heard the expression of 'salting the Earth'. The original context differs but the principle remains that nothing grows there for a good century at least, anyway.

This method was approved for this particular zone only because the whole region is blanketed with dense rain forests, and the threats are as numerous as there are places to climb or crawl out from. Stories had circulated about the fate of the first compound in sector gamma; Outpost 17. Outpost 17 was set up in a location which, according to inadequate intel, was a decent site. It was located in one of the only open meadows with a small lake. There was enough clearance for CH47AE heavy transport choppers to fly in the more manageable components. The heavy prefabricated structures and modules were brought in by Mil Mi-6 heavy lift Soviet era helicopter. We didn't have any state of the art vehicles, as the ground-side factories can only do so much with what they have to work with, and its just horribly expensive and unjustified waste to ship them from Earth, unless its very high end, specialized assets that would require too much infrastructure on-site to otherwise be able to manufacture and assemble. They mostly turned out Late Cold War era vehicles. The Soviet wheeled vehicles were pretty hardy and reliable, the latter was attributed to the lack of profit skimming by those under the Soviet Union back on Earth.  
Here there is no profit skimming, as unofficially, if anyone found out that you were shorting those who are trying to protect you, they might take you on a one way nature walk in the wild or you would either be sent to the gulag or one of the labor forces, as there will never be just a couple of things needing maintenance, always was and forever will be an itemized list. Luckily the sources of paper are nearly infinite here. 

The first two days were somewhat quiet for Pandora, only the herbivores and the odd viper wolf sighting. The initial perimeter fence went up first, then a few key buildings. First, the guards assigned along one section of the fence started getting nervous, some thought they had seen something in the long grass, before it suddenly vanished.  
They asked the construction team to make setting up IR cameras and motion detectors higher priority. Meanwhile the perimeter of the clearing expanded with the use of flamethrowers.  
As you might expect, things went to shit, fast. Power from the some of the generators would sometimes cut out at night due to pests gnawing on cables. Patrols outside the main compound were restricted to daylight hours, well before sun down. 

After numerous animal attacks from a previously unencountered creature. Which, as it turned out, had its nesting grounds there, a prime location near a game trail and a source of water.  
The creatures could only be called raptors. There were a few varieties of them. Generally they displayed pack hunting behavior. You don't need a degree to spot that.  
Patrols were ambushed in daylight, even along cleared paths. Numerous missing personnel and casualties later, despite new measures, the outpost was essentially abandoned almost exclusively due to raptor incursions, alone. 

The base is still revisited once every two months for maintenance, in what is considered hostile territory to keep 17 as an emergency rendezvous/fallback/evacuation point. It would provide a last chance of survival and rescue if you could make it there before sundown and call for help, assuming the comms are in working order. If nothing else, at least your dog tags will be recovered, and you won't end up as another MIA- presumed and for all intents and purposes, quite thoroughly dead. So, while its better than nothing, Outpost 17's clock is still ticking down until it becomes essentially useless as the buildings lose structural integrity, fences and well... everything frankly is infiltrated by roots and fuck that shit, you might as well scrap it and build a new one at that point. The informal name of O.17 was 'Last Resort'.

Luckily, "upper management" (command) had learned from that fuck up, at least for now.  
The fences around this compound were electrified. As the gates opened before the convoy, the status lights blinking their greeting, welcoming the new personnel who were to be stationed here for at least two months. The first vehicle, an enclosed Humvee with an M240 machine gun, and FRAG II bolt-on armor, was first to enter, followed by three M939 6-wheeled transport trucks (Vietnam period) two were full of personnel, while the last was full of supplies. The last two vehicles were the Humvee Mk.19* (belt fed grenade launcher) and last but not least, one of the more modern LAV's. All vehicles had metal slats across each window (think of the vehicles in 'The Lost World'). The escorts would be able to handle most threats, and others you can just speed away from. After the LAV passed through the gate, it closed slowly.  
The vehicles pulled into lot in front of the barracks. A single officer waited. Everyone began to disembark, and stood before the officer, setting down some of their bags as they did. 

_**"Well, I'm sure you all enjoyed the scenic car ride over here. I am Lieutenant Leidt, and if I here anyone whisper 'lee lee' or god help you, 'Ling Ling' I will shove my boot so far up your ass, you will find yourself vomiting meals from last Sunday, and your rectum will be in such a state that you won't be able to tell the difference between a breeze and your gay fuck buddy helping you pack! Are WE CLEAR!?"**_

_**"SIR, YES SIR!"**_

" _ **Good, now, it is my sincerest pleasure to welcome you to Hell's Half Acre, your new post for at least the next two months. Now, get this pile of garbage off my FUCKING LAWN and into the barracks and don't forget to take your kit bags with you! Dismissed."**_

With that the new arrivals gathered their meager belongings and gear, making their way to their new 'home away from home'.

 **This was Outpost 19, also known as Hell's Half Acre.  
** \- 

One Private assigned the task of offloading supplies and signing off on having received the consignment. Even here there was paperwork. This was an important necessity as anyone understanding even the very basics of logistics would know, as the supplies on hand should be known at any given time, which would determine the options in case of emergency or some other scenario. That being said, it was still paperwork.  
Two drivers from the convoy walked over and sat on one of the offloaded crates which had already been catalogued, thankfully, if anything went missing I shouldn't get any shit for it. 

**"Hey, did you hear about that uppity Augustine bitch?"  
**

**"I heard the hammer fell on that one, and that's all I know of it. Why, what you hear?"  
**

**"Well, she was acting well outside her station and what her job required of her, so they gave her an official warning which pretty much means strike two."  
**

**"Well, she had it coming after all she did, almost always out of line. Fucking hippy bitch."  
**

**"Yep, she really does believe that the 'blueberries' are noble and majestic, even when they kill our guys."**

_**"Huh, blueberries? Never heard that one before. Might be better than blue monkeys, or blue bitches. Usually it's just, 'kill that blue mother fucker he just killed what's-his-name'. Apparently, science division is working on some kind of antidote, booster or something for that neurotoxin the blue's use on the arrows."**_ **  
**

_**"Well, that would be a nice increase to survivability."**_ **  
**One man hops off the crate.

 _ **"Yeah,...well lets check the trucks, I never leave it to the mechanics who claim to have checked everything. Especially in this fucking place."  
**_

_**"Yeah I hear that."**_

The men both head back around the front of their trucks.  
One of the good things about unloading supplies, is the information you hear. Some might be useful, or good to know and the rest is usually interesting if nothing else. As drivers, they usually pick up information or the latest rumors from wherever they go. Some information might be very important to the right people who would 'appreciate' knowing, either up front or in return for a favor.  
Sometimes it's not about what you know, but who you know and what they owe. Sometimes, if not always, it's both.

Patrolling at this time of day, you would see a few soldiers at 'the town sign'. They replaced, I guess you might call it 'the message of the day', everyday or so. Each message contained words of wisdom or humor. Yesterday's was _**'funnest place on Pandora'**_. The day before that it was _**'Mine's bigger than yours'**_ and before that; **'Engineering your future'**. I shook my head with smile. 

-/ **Near Hell's Half Acre  
1000 [local time]  
**  
Private Ramirez (20 days on Pandora)

Patrol, I hate, hate, hate patrol on this goddamn planet. I hadn't even been on all that many to realize the huge danger and unnerving disadvantage any patrolling group was placed in. On the usual route for our assigned area, we carried on alert of our surroundings which is difficult when sounds almost continuously come from everywhere. I was the third in the staggered column when the point man suddenly stopped with his closed fist raised (sign for halt) and dropped to a knee, scanning his surroundings.  
The wind was knocked out of me, and I staggered back, feeling a dull, growing ache, I looked down and observed a fucking arrow jutting out of gut. The ache grew quickly in intensity to a sharp, hot ache. I tried unsuccessfully to catch my breath. Eyes widening, everything losing focus and becoming hazy.

 _ **"CONTACTS, TWO O'CLOCK!"**_ Shouted a voice.

 _ **"BASE WE HAVE BEEN ENGAGED BY MULTIPLE HOSTILES, WE HAVE MAN DOWN! OUR GRID IS-"  
**_  
The radio operator voice was lost amid staccato bursts of automatic weapons which brought down a blue.  
One of them jumped down from overhead into the center of the column. It swung its axe in a sideways arc towards one soldier, who quickly ducked under it, and stomped the side of the Navi's ankle. It hurt it, but didn't break like it would a human's. The alien lashed out with a vicious side kick into the human's side. Breaking a few ribs launching him into a tree. Another soldier took two steps toward the blue monkey and fire three consecutive rounds into its skull, which blew out the back with the last round.  
I collapsed, breathing in short, sharp breaths, coughing up blood. I couldn't focus. The pain. I heard sounds around me, saw movement, yet didn't really see, or hear. The only sensation was feel, which was also quickly slipping. With shallow-rapid, halting breaths. With one ragged inhale, it stopped.  
One private came under a flurry of knife slashes by a smaller blue. His assailant had white patterns painted on his chest and face.  
The knives cut through sections of his ACU, and the flesh beneath. He tried to bat away his attacker with his rifle. Sarge jumped in plunging his combat knife into the spine, just above the shoulders. The alien crumpled to the ground dead.

 _ **"Fuck! Thanks, Sarge. Couldn't get this animal off me!"**_

 _ **"Corpsman! Take a look at Hanes over here, then check yourself out. What's Ramirez' status?"**_

The air slowly left the dead corporal's lungs as his empty body gave its final exhale, out of the blood covered lips, eyes wide open.

The corpsman sighs, _**"Ramirez is gone, sir."**_

 _3 minutes later._

Well, we had one KIA, and two ambulatory wounded.  
Two dead blues could be seem sprawled on the ground near the edge of the trail, while a third, younger one still lived, despite the gun shots he had sustained in his left leg, and three rounds which stitched his torso. He would live.  
A soldier leveling his C7 rifle at the last remaining hostile called out, _**"Sarge, what do we do with this one? This might have been a 'rite of passage' case."**_

_**"Well, they are making sport of us. I'm not in sporting mood, especially after they gutshot Ramirez. They killed our last Mexican. Cut his 'cord'."**_

 _ **"Well, his life is pretty much over, then."**_ Stated a squad member. 

Another shifted a bit on his feet. _**"Is there a problem corporal?"**_

" _ **Sarge, wouldn't that amount to a war crime back on Earth?"**_

_**"Firstly, WE are not on Earth, secondly: these fuckers never heard of nor signed any Geneva agreement. Otherwise, yes it would be. Hold him still."  
**_ -  
 _Later_

The latest news at base (the local operations compound of Hell's Half Acre), was that one squad on patrol had been ambushed, and lost only a single man, which is alright considering how vulnerable patrols are in this place. Again, its not great, but by the standards of the Hellhole and considering what they are up against, they did fine, but a man is still dead. The two wounded had suffered minor lacerations and a few broken bones.

More 'souvenirs' were brought back. Intel was mostly collected on-site: pictures were taken of the Navi with intact skulls, particular attention was paid to the face and chest, as well as the style of weapons which could possibly indicate which tribe these were from, and what could be expected from the group in the future. One head and two knives were brought back to base, perhaps as a visual deterrent. But more than a few base personnel take trophies. Part of an emerging subculture, if the rumors were true.  
Ramirez was packed up and sent with the next convoy heading to Hell's Gate (main base on Pandora) for cremation. He wasn't the first casualty at Hell's Half Acre, and he certainly wouldn't be the last.  
Those on base had to focus on survival and doing their duty, and they looked forward to rotation out to one of the rear bases near the city of Hanford. Though, calling it a city is still a bit generous, it'll get there. 

Some of us plan to stay here, settle down and raise a family, assuming we survive. Those in ground side security plan to do one of a number of things; join the militia (eventually will become Colonial Marines as soon as it becomes more organized), become a military instructor or act as an advisor.

A bunch of them talk of working metal at the forges set up in some of the settlements (reminiscent of medieval blacksmithing forges).  
You can't let those thoughts distract you. Or it will lead to your own death. Hasn't been the first time it happened.

 **\- - - - - - end of chapter 1 (v2.1)- - - - - - -**

 **Author's note to readers:**

Thanks for trying out my first publicly posted story. I apologize for any inconsistencies in italics, bold and overall layout. This story has been sitting on my ipod for a while now and finally decided to share it, after some more editing and revisions of course. You still might find the odd error that I could have missed. I am an amateur writer, who wishes to try his hand at telling a few tales, certainly to try and give back to the community where I have read some many great stories in different genres, settings, worlds, universes and dimensions.

To writers, the creators of worlds. May you continue to create breathing universes.

I had to repost chapter 2, as it turns out that what I first uploaded as chapter 2 – Smell the Ashes was a future chapter, meant for after I had more or less established the setting without leaping right to the rising action.

 **-[Author notes to self]-**

 **I might need to adjust or add time changes.  
** (Add pictures in future versions)  
Rotation basis - perimeter outpost duty. 

**\- Updated on January 5** **th** **, 2017.**

 **-Reviewed on January 1** **st** **, 2017.  
-Reviewed on February 17** **th** **, 2016.  
-Updated on February 19** **th** **, 2016  
-Updated on February 17** **th** **, 2016  
-Updated on February 16** **th** **, 2016  
-Updated on February 4** **th** **, 2016.**


	2. Chapter 2 - Visitors

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Hell's Half Acre

Chapter 2 - Visitors

 **Outpost 19 (H.H.A.) - Armory** **  
** **1400** **  
** **Quartermaster 'Cumin'** **  
**

-

The quartermaster left out a sigh, as he finished inventory of all the weapons and ammo in his building, but he still had more work to do. There were still the attachments, gadgets and other addons, not to mention the supplies that rolled in this morning with the greens (fresh troops not yet tested by Pandora or Hell's Half Acre).

"More paperwork, always, always more and more paperwork."

Then in a mocking manner the Quartermaster continued his rant: "'Sorry, but I think I dented this part of the rifle', 'I hear this funny rattle when..', or 'I dropped my assault rifle in the mud, running from a pack of viper wolves, sorry man, I don't have time to clean all the gunk out'"

With a long suffering sigh, he got right back to accounting for the attachments and addons. Those would still need to be rechecked and recalibrated if necessary, but not today. Various people on base thought he was anal about everything passing across his 'desk', maybe even to an OCD extent. In a way, he might be. You don't put firearms on the gun racks in improper, unclean states. They should be relatively clean and ready for use, it was standard. Small scratches were fine, as long as they weren't on any optics, sensors, or 'delicate' pieces of equipment.

He felt somewhat responsible for them, which he was, but it was more than that. They reflect on him, that was part of it. If a soldier in the field has a serious weapon malfunction, it could lead to his death, and the deaths of whoever he is with, if the weapon fails the soldier. It might have been the Quartermaster's fault or it could have been the soldier's, for not maintaining it. What would matter, are any deaths occurring or worse.  
The soldiers sometimes signed out weapons for long periods of time, which was allowed, unlike the security personnel, who had to return everything but their side arms when off-duty. Veterans usually signed out their weapons long-term.  
He was moving a few of the new supply crates into the back room of the armory. More grenades: check, more 5.56: check, a lot more .50 cal: check, small consignment of nitro express .700 rounds..?

"Hm, well, big game is plenty, but a poor soldier's weapon."

After entering the last crate into the inventory manifest, he left the clipboard on the wall peg, equipped an exopack (mask with air supply), picked up a Franchi SPAS 12 shotgun, and went outside. It was after mid-day, there were workers maintaining equipment and the multitude of machines and wiring which made up the complex of outpost 19.

He made to breathe in fresh air, but, remembering that it was Pandora and that while he wore an exopack, there wasn't any 'fresh' air. Just another thing he never got used to and one of the things he missed most.

"Tired of gun oil, already? You forgot again, didn't you, Cumin?"

The Quartermaster turned to see a very familiar face; a maintenance worker by the name of Donovan.

"Every time, and each time it feels slightly worse. Such a simple pleasure, yet it's denied to us here. If it wasn't for that one thing, I might actually like it here." 

"Really? What about all the nasties?"

Cumin just shrugged, "Not my problem just as long as you greasers do your jobs", gesturing to the small sub-transformer Donovan was working on." 

The nickname 'Cumin', came from Q-man, from his position title: Quartermaster. Say Q-man enough, you may start saying Cumin, instead. The nickname stuck. Walking over to the edge of the 'parade ground' (large open area of the central complex), he observed some heavy duty crates being loaded onto a mule train (refer to Vietnam logistics cargo vehicle). Cumin was about to light a cigarette, then reconsidered, as he had the damn mask over his face, grumbling. He tried to pick out any detail or designation on any of the boxes. Aside from serial numbers of the production series and batch produced from the factory, there were some 'explosive contents' stickers.

Well, if they were regular ordnance, they would be headed to the armory, or its warehouse behind it. Vehicle, artillery and cannon ammo typically went to the motor pool warehouse. 

"I bet those are landmines. Took them long enough to make it out here."

"Yeah, but chances are they are more of the same AP mines designed for use against humans. Someone might need to suggest to procurement or the local R&D (research and development) department that they should consider that Nav'ii have ankles located much higher than humans." But they still did the job for most other things, like the viperwolves.

"Don't electrocute yourself you electrical contractor scumbag, and make sure you label everything right! I swear to god, if I find a single breaker that has only the word 'General' on it, I will make sure you get the rustiest piece of shit gun I have."

Donovan just chuckled. "Is this still about that one electrician from Earth?"

"Never trust any contractors, always expect them to swipe something or recycle shit in order to sell off the premium materials you paid for!"

"Yeah, you should probably get back to polishing bullets and reminding everyone that they can't engrave their initials or old clichés into anything from your armory."

With that he went back to the armory, cycling through the air lock, and hung his exopack back on the peg. Walking past his desk/counter, he snagged the clipboard of the latest procurement requests. He made his way over to a nearby wooden crate of .308's and lit a cigarette, taking a seat.

He skimmed the entries: 25 more m6 frag grenades, 5 40mm HE grenades, 11 40mm white flare rounds. So far it just looks like typical patrol expenditures. Then he notices a peculiarity; a request for 10 road flares and 60 glow sticks. He wouldn't bat an eye at 10 road flares, if it weren't for the fact that it was made by the same individual who also wanted 60 glow sticks. They were never expended that quickly. He denied both requests.

They typically didn't even have glow sticks in the armory, as everything that isn't guns and bullets, or the things you hang them from, or assist the soldier in active combat is always found in the regular warehouse with its own quartermaster. He probably shut down this guy too, and that's why he's trying it here. Some people need to grow up.

With that, he took his last pull at the cigarette before flicking it into an ash can, and went to finish authorizing the 'reasonable' requests.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 **Outpost 19** ****

 **Operations control center** **  
** **-Alice** **  
**-  
"This is convoy three Sierra echo, checking in with Op. Center 19, we are about 3 klicks out. Will make short stop over at '19, then carry on our way to the Morzov petrol processing plant, do you copy?"

"This is . 19, we copy your last. See you in a few, control center, out."

"Op. 19, be advised we made contact with a hostile local group a few klicks back. Might be another 'followed me home' case."

"The CIC has been notified (combat information center), thanks for the update, Op. 19 out." As the one on-duty employee had heard the entire exchange. This wasn't Hell's Gate or a newly established site, so there wasn't much going on aside from occasional sentry reports, updates and intermittent silence over the security band. The man's nametag said 'Jim', although that's all anyone really knew or cared to know about the man, whom passed on the warning to the perimeter security units.

The operations controller next to Alice, leaned toward her, "Hey Alice? Isn't it a bit soon for another supply run?"

"Its not for us, its for Morzov Processing Plant. Stuff needs to be replaced, and the production inventory accumulates until its transported out, I suppose, and with the number of staff they have, which need to be fed."

"That was equivalent to the monthly supply consignment, and they already received it last week, so why are they getting another so soon?"

"Maybe some supplies were lost enroute, or had spoiled? No that's not quite right, most of those could only spoil or decay after a decade, and besides, we would hear something if a convoy was lost. They might have boosted production at the facility, and need to expand existing infrastructure. Who knows, who cares."

"How bored are you, Alice, if you are thinking that deeply into something that doesn't matter like another supply run? If you like...we could work the remedy to said boredom, sometime?"

"Not happening. Keep it professional on duty" Alice reminded him.

"Well, here's my card..."  
SMACK  
"Owww!" He gingerly rubs the back of his head.

"Bitch." As Alice turns back to her console, the speakers crackle, as an element updates the center.

"OCC19, this is Sierra Echo, we are one minute out, have that gate open."

"This is the Op. Cent. 19, it will be. Proceed to the receiving area and refuel at the depot as needed, out."

"Copy on move order."

Alice looked through the window, as the last vehicle in the convoy rolled through, the gates closing behind it. The up-armored humvee had a few arrows sticking out. 

After a good 5 minute staring contest with her terminal screens and readouts, the relative silence of the control room was broken by radio.

"This is Northeast sentry, we have contacts beyond the usual curious critter or two. Might have a few smurfs in the woods. Requesting heightened alert level of entire perimeter and additional security elements, over."

"CIC copies, we are sending more elements to shore up the wall, over."

 **End of Chapter 2**

Updated: Jan 4th, 2016  
Updated: May 5th, 2016

Created: March 14th, 2016 

Author note to self: (**** add technical section on the C7 rifle, and a few others)  
(*** look up specs for the SPAS 12) 


End file.
